I Am Not Conquered
by The Dawn Shall Rise
Summary: Arendelle has been conquered by the overpowering forces of the Southern Isles. Elsa is captured and faces the witch stake. Anna and Kristoff leads a small rebellion against Hans' might. And in the midst of it all a lone stranger, with Old Magic woven into his being, sends a message to Hans, "Flee Arendelle and never return, for the Charmer's tolerance of this tyranny grows thin."


**The teaser for this saga:**

_**Arendelle has been conquered by the overpowering forces of the Southern Isles. An edict has been declared that all use of magic is henceforth forbidden, and Elsa faces the witch stake. But a stranger intervenes and destiny has set a new course for our Snow Queen.**_

**Hearken thy words, for the weaver of this tale does not own **_**Frozen. **_

Merlin strode along a dirt path in the early day of fall. He halted his stride for a moment, his staff coming to a rest beside his boot as he tilted his gaze upward to regard the remains of a naked tree. One last leaf clung stubbornly to the very fingertips of an outstretched branch. Merlin marveled at the little leaf's resistance, loving life and not wanting to lose itself to the mercy of the winter winds. But the cycle must continue, thus within a final gust from the east, a chilling breeze, the leaf was whisked away, twirling and dancing sorrowfully with the wind.

Merlin lowered his gaze and stared back straight down the beaten path. As he stood, a merlin falcon screeched overhead. She swooped down, the falcon, and claimed Merlin's staff as her perch. The young traveler murmured his absentminded greetings to his old friend and took to stroking the feathers of the proud predatory bird.

"This path must lead somewhere, Queen," Merlin spoke in his mild English accent.

This young man was a lone wanderer. He owned nothing but what he wore on his back, what was grasped in his hand, what was lashed to his belt, and what was hanging from his shoulder. He traveled the lands, alone save his sky-fairing companion, Queen.

Merlin's wild, jet-black locks ruffled as the gentle but biting breeze played with his hair. Stubble ran down his jawline, giving the impression that he hasn't shaved in well over a week. His skin was tan from his travels through the desert, his eyes a deep shade of green. Merlin's hands were scarred, callused and filthy. He bothered not to clean his hands for the sake of preserving his last drops of water.

Merlin was a well four month's travel from the desert and had taken to sea aboard a Viking ship, enchanted to sail to her own accord. This young man, this wanderer, is not a wizard. Wizards draw their magic from a source. He is not a Sorcerer, Sorcerers must be blessed by a greater being. Merlin is one what the folk of his homelands would call a _Charmer_.

The young man continued his walk down the path. Ever since he reached land four days before, he sought the company of other people. He needed a conversation, somebody to reply to, and somebody to converse with. The first signs of civilization had been a depressing sight. He had stepped through a village, the cottages were not but piles of smoking rubble. Fires had still been burning upon his arrival. Ashes had fallen like a black, dreary snowfall. He had found no bodies, just the remains of a quaint little hamlet.

This experience unnerved the lone wanderer. Merlin had his own experience of war, devastation. His kind had once been plentiful, and no plague wiped his people from the living. It was a war, and the war had been lost. Merlin, now the last _Charmer_, was but a refugee among the fallen.

Queen took off to the skies and sailed the winds westward in search for prey, leaving Merlin alone. The wanderer continued his trek unceasingly. He ambled along the path well into the night, wrapping his grey cloak around himself to fight back the bitter cold. The grey sky shifted into a starless black, the moon peaking from behind the inky clouds every so often to bathe the path with silvery light.

Merlin stopped and cupped his hands, holding his staff in the crook of his elbow. He dipped his head down and whispered into his palms.

"_Alight the path as I walk through the night. Give me a companion of heavenly light." _

As soon is the words left the young man's parched throat, he clamped his hands shut as if holding a fly. Gingerly, golden hues of light began to push through from between his fingers. Sudden brilliant flash followed until the wild light died away. Merlin pulled his hands apart and watched with a proud little smile as a perfect sphere of golden light floated timidly upward and circled his head. The path ahead was now visible, and he could see without stepping into a bothersome mud-puddle or horse waste.

Merlin traveled along the countryside. Queen had taken to chasing the sphere of light the _Charmer_ had conjured, of whom had taken to calling the orb 'Ghost'. Ghost seemed to have a will of his very own, flitting about purposely and chirping in his own language. He served his purpose well and guided Merlin through the nights that followed. Though at day break, Ghost would vanish, absorbed into Merlin's staff for rest. Three weeks passed when the first excitement in months took a toll.

It was midday, the sun was at its apex, yet did nothing to warm the lone wanderer. Merlin had been nibbling at the last of his rations, a hunk of cheese as he walked tirelessly onward when he heard the distant sound of horns. He was walking on the same path as before. Hills rolled at his right, woodlands stretched to his left. The winter day was cool but still. The perfect day for a hunt. That was what the horns were-horns of a hunting party. And in a hunting party there is people. _People_.

Merlin spun in a complete circle, listening for the next hunting horn to gage where the sound was coming from. He heard the cries of Queen above, the rustling of foliage, the beating of hooves. Merlin faced the array of trees that stood like proud gates of the woodlands. A stag cantered from the underbrush and onto the path. It came to an alarmed halt as it spied Merlin leaning against his staff, blocking its path. The stag snorted, dough eyes wide and terrified. Merlin gazed back, stalk still as he leaned against the staff and gazed at the frightened stag. The two stared at one another for a moment. The stag had stopped because this human smelt of the _Elden Magic_ of old. But that was impossible. The _Charmers_ were extinct.

A hissing sound pierced the air. Merlin rose his staff_. "Protect the proud dweller of the woodlands from hurt. Curse thy weapons of death and sport."_

The arrow that whispered death burst into purple flames and only smoking ash rested upon the stag's flank. Horses burst from the wood, naying excitedly at the fresh scent of _Old Magic_. The hunters shouted and cursed as they strove to tame their horses. The stag darted off back toward the wood. A hunter raised his crossbow in a desperate attempt to shoot down the stag. The crossbow melted like oil in the hunter's hands, and he screamed.

"Witch craft!"

There was one thing that Merlin had failed to consider. Ordinarily, hunters did their work alone and silent. This was an entire entourage of hunters. They all bore symbols on the shoulder of their uniforms, Merlin noted, as they gained control over the horses and surrounded the _Charmer_. Both fear and curiosity is what filled the men's faces.

"Another one," one bearded man whispered. "Another one." His voice was awestruck. No hatred nor fear plagued his words.

Merlin didn't take to being gaped at like an exotic exhibit. He shuffled uncomfortably from where he stood, eyes following the uniformed hunters. Apparently, the escaped stag was forgotten. He was now the spotlight.

"What is your name, stranger?" A man, who seemed to be the leader of the group, spoke. He was tall, handsome, his hair long and brown with a fair, unmarked face. He carried himself like a noble.

Merlin shifted slightly, meeting the man's gaze unwaveringly. "My name is Merlin of Emrys."

The young man paused, as though he had heard the name before. Spoken in tales and ballads.

"From where do you hail?" he slipped from his steed and straightened his back, his shoulders broad.

Merlin hesitated, he never spoke of his homeland not to any soul, and so he squared his narrow shoulders and spoke. "From which do _you _hail, sir?"

Many a man gaped at the Charmer's insolence, as if he spoke to a high lord. The man straightened his back, taking to glare down at Merlin. "I am Prince Owen of The Southern Isles. You are trespassing on conquered lands, Merlin of Merlin. You will speak to me with the utmost respect, otherwise…" he casually settled his palm upon a grand sword that hung at his hip.

Merlin did not bother to hide his scowl of distain. "You say I trek on conquered lands? Am I speaking to the conqueror? Or, more likely, do I speak to the conquered?" The lone wanderer's scowl twisted into a wry smirk.

The faces of the hunters grew proud and they straightened their backs.

"We are the conquerors," Prince Owen chuckled. "Tell me, Merlin of Merlin, do you know where you are?"

Merlin drew his eyes skywards. "Judging by the clearness of the sky and briskness of the air, this is the northern corner of the world. That is my educated guest."

Prince Owen laughed, his broad shoulders shaking with merriment. "This is Arendelle, Merlin of Emrys. And we are the very men who dominated the _Winter Witch _herself. It would not do you well to cross us, _Worker of Witchcraft_."

Merlin had not taken wind of any _Winter Witch_, but how this man carried himself, the Charmer assumed that 'dominating' this person must have been some incredible feat. Merlin passed his staff from one hand to the other as the arrogant noble continued.

"And you have crossed us, Merlin of Emrys." Prince Owen stepped closer, his smirk growing to the cruelty of a tyrant. "You trespass on our hunting grounds, rob us of our game, and mock me to my very face. I must commend you for your valor." Raising his gloved hands, the handsome prince clapped with mocking leisure. The pseudo praise made laughter roll from the surrounding hunters.

"But, despite your intriguing bravery, you wield magic." Prince Owen casually unsheathed his long, curving saber. He admired the slim, superior blade as he continued. "And magic has been drawn into oppression by law of the new king of Arendelle. My brother, King Hans."

Merlin set his jaw. His fingers gripped his staff tighter.

"Mr. Alsten, would you tell this poor soul the edict that forbids the use of magic?" Prince Owen removed a silk handkerchief from his sleeve and began running it up and down the steel blade of his sword. Alsten, a dark haired, middle-aged hunter, cleared his throat. "Yes sire." He paused before speaking:

"King Hans of Arendelle declares that all use of magic forbidden. Those who are born of magic are avowed as _unholy _and will be burned to the stake. Those who meddle with any magical trinkets will face the gallows. If one is to aid a _magic handler, _warlock, witch, wizard, sorcerer, and mage alike will face the penalty of death. Those who harbor any _magic handlers _will have their home burned and will face exile."

Merlin scoffed, "That's tyranny."

"Politics," Prince Owen corrected, "I believe that you, Merlin of Emrys, have an appointment with the _witch stake_."

The arrogant prince slashed outward with his sleek saber, attempting to cleave Merlin's staff in two. The Charmer sprung backwards with surprising litheness. The shriek of an enraged falcon sounded as Queen dove from above, pecking, scratching, and snapping at Prince Owen's face. The prince shouted with outrage and batted helplessly at the fierce falcon. The blade swept through the air and only managed to slice the very tips of Queen's feathers. The hunters rose their weapons of game, some aiming to shoot down Queen, others leveling their crossbows to fire upon Merlin.

The Charmer rose his staff. _"Blind these wicked men with an unforgiving light! Never shall their anguish end 'till the break of night!"_

At the very tip of the gnarled staff spilled forth golden light like stolen rays of sun. The light gathered intensity and with a mighty clap of thunder, flashed a light so brilliant, it was as if a second sun had flashed into existence of the briefest moment. The hunters began shout in awestruck terror, others started weeping, one made a sign against evil. For their vision was no more.

Queen cried triumphantly and settled on the shoulder of Merlin of Emrys, who gazed solemnly on as the horses went berserk with the scent of _Old Magic_ teasing their flaring nostrils. The steeds began galloping in all directions, including Prince Owen's chestnut mare. Some of the hunters fell from their horses, breaking bones, others clung to manes with dear life.

Prince Owen cowered, he had dropped his lethal saber. His face was bleeding from the many scratches Queen had given him. Merlin scowled as he stepped forth. The noble must have heard the footfalls of the Charmer, for he made an odd whimpering sound and scuttled back like a frightened bug. "What are you?!" he hissed, his blind eyes petrified.

Merlin set his boot against the prince's chest and pushed the man back down into the grass.

"Be still, I have a message for your 'king'," Merlin's voice was cold and chillingly calm. "Tell him to flee Arendelle and to never return, for the _Charmer's _tolerance of this tyranny grows thin. Do you understand?"

Prince Owen glared blankly. "He will kill you," his voice was choked with hatred. "My brother will hunt you down like a _mongrel pup _and burn you for your devilry."

"I cannot be burned," came Merlin reply before he stepped back and away from the prince.

Something clanked under Merlin boot and glanced down to see the slim blade of the sleek saber. Taking the leather-bound hilt, the Charmer examined the beautiful weapon. The tooth of the sword was curved and slim, the and instead of a cross guard, a thin band of gold curved downward to protect the fingers, connecting with the hilt. The blade must have been of a new fashion, for it was unlike any short sword or broad sword Merlin have ever seen. The saber was light, perfectly balanced.

"Nice sword," the lone wanderer mused. He swished the slim weapon through the air before facing Prince Owen. "Run."

And so the cowed noble did with great vigor. As Prince Owen was rudely introduced to the trunk of a tree, Merlin turned his back on the man and continued his way down the path, tucking the saber in his sash. The Charmer slipped a compass from the leather satchel that hung at his side. He whispered words of magic, running his thumb over the trinket.

"_The lives for those who bear magic has become a living hell. Guide me true to the gates of Arendelle." _

**Ahhh, classic, right? A fetching and mighty stranger standing up to the oppressive order. Makes me shiver with excitement writing it. But please, I would love to read your insight. An intelligent critique pleases a passionate writer. **

**The unfortunate circumstances that has befallen our beloved Arendelle will be explained in the next chapter, fear not.**


End file.
